Chaingang c-3

by Rex Miller

  But when he got to the edge of the hole, he just stood there, looking down at the swiftly moving river.

  “Hop on down here, big ‘un. There's plenty of room. I'll move over a little.” He did so, and Chaingang found himself sitting beside this fool, his brain feeling as if it had been encased in ice.

  “What's your name, son? I'm John Oscar.” He was holding out his hand to shake hands. Chaingang blinked. The old man was not the least put off, he'd been around the retarded all his life. It wasn't a problem. They was just like anybody else. He patted the big leg of the giant wedged next to him. It was the second time a man had put hands on him like that in recent memory. The next time it happened, that offender would lose those digits.

  “I don't know my own name sometimes, son. It's my age. I don't know for sure how old I am, but I'm old enough I can recall riding the rods in the Great Depression. You have no i-dee what I'm talking about, do ya, boy?” Daniel blinked again. Swallowed. Finally managed a monosyllabic grunt. “Don't worry none."

  “You ever fish below here? Slabtown? I use rank liver on big ol’ game-fish test. And look here, son. Homemade sinkers. You know what I make ‘em out of?” The big feller didn't seem to be interested, so he reached for his other pole. “Here.” He jabbed it at Chaingang. “Take this. Go on. Don't be afraid. Take holt of it real good."

  Daniel opened a fist, and his big fingers swallowed the end of the bamboo pole.

  “That's it, big ‘un. Now, keep that end of the pole pointed up more,” he scolded. “That's right. Soon as that pulls, you hold on real tight and we'll catch us some fish. How's that sound?"

  Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski, his mind in icy pieces, sat quietly, obediently, on the edge of Blue Feature Thirty-One, fishing with John Oscar. Happy as two peas in a pod.

  11

  WATERTON

  Hawthorne's funky ride, a superannuated-looking Ranchero that appeared to have seen about twenty better years, was parked on an out-of-the-way side street off Waterworks Road. Half a block away, near a small convenience store, he whispered hoarsely into a pay phone.

  “Thank you,” he said, hanging up the receiver. The phone rang shrilly and he snatched it off the cradle, but a female voice instructed him to deposit money. He'd forgotten about the operator. He dropped coins and listened to the pinging routine. Shortly thereafter Southwestern Bell delivered him into the waiting arms of AT&T.

  Someone spoke into his ear from two hundred miles away, and he said what he hoped were the magic words: “I'd like to speak with someone about buying some insurance.” The connection was noisy and the man's voice sounded far away.

  “Who's calling please?"

  “This is a man who's insurance—” Jesus in Heaven! Suddenly his mind had gone completely blank. A hundred times they'd gone over this. The stupid fucking routine. “This is a man who's—” What? An insurance fraud? Insurance policy? Insurance poor! “—insurance poor!" he blurted out, as if he'd just won the bonus question on a game show.

  “Number?"

  His number. What in the hell was wrong with him? He'd forgotten everything over this Drexel deal.

  He finally snapped out of it and whispered the number. The man's voice requested corroboration of the pay telephone number, asking it in a certain way so that Hawthorne could clue them if he was “under severe and immediate threat."

  He hung up, and it was a few moments this time before the telephone rang again. He grabbed at it.

  “What?” The daddy rabbit's voice was one he had no trouble remembering.

  “The guy I had set to make the initial buy ... he fell apart on me."

  “Yeah? So?"

  “I need some money, man! I need five grand."

  “Go get it. You're the big drug pusher."

  “Funny.” The fucking prick. “I don't have anybody else to take that kinda weight around Waterton fucking Missouri, you dig? I need you to cut me a huss, ya know?"

  “You're jeopardizing this by even using this number. Now, you solve your problem, mister!” the voice growled in his ear. “And don't use this number again unless it's important.” Click.

  God almighty. He just stood there with the thing in his hand, a noisy nothing in his ear. He swallowed and his ears popped like he was depressurizing. He had to do some sniff and get his shit together.

  Those fucking pricks.

  Royce Hawthorne had called her, sounding so funny over the phone that she assumed he might have learned something. He was on his way over to talk with her.

  She was still dressed up from making the rounds with, the reward handbills, and was glad she hadn't had time to undress before the telephone rang. She answered the door wearing her fancy black gabardine suit jacket, with a straight short skirt, and Royce made a show about her being dressed up.

  “Wow!” he said. “You look sensational, Mary.” She was the Mary he remembered. More beautiful, in fact, than he remembered seeing her.

  “I bet,” she said. She'd washed her hair and put on makeup, but she felt tired to the bone, and she figured it must show.

  “I mean it,” he said, obviously sincere.

  “Thanks.” She asked him to sit down, wanting him to tell her what he'd learned. He made small talk, and she started getting the nagging feeling it was something bad.

  “Royce, have you learned something about Sam having a mistress or something?"

  “Huh?” He was genuinely thrown. He had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Obviously you're building up to something you don't really want to say—I know you, remember? You tried to tell me it was possible the other day, and I didn't want to hear it, talking about how he might have wanted a new life and all. Have you heard something? Is it another woman?"

  “For God's sake, Mary, I didn't mean to create that impression at all. No. It's got nothing to do with Sam. First, have you got a mirror, lady? You're one terrific-lookin’ woman. No. Uh-uh. No way. You misunderstood. I was talking about all the money he'd been making in real estate. That humongous deal he'd put together and all. I guess it occurred to me it would be worth looking at the possibility of him wanting to set something up and vanish. But the more you told me about him, I could see that wasn't the way he'd go. That money he made—the way he put every dime into something that would provide for you one day—those aren't the actions of a married guy who wants to escape."

  “If it isn't that—"

  “I'm in some money trouble, keed. That's why I wanted to talk to you—no, I haven't heard a thing about Sam. In fact, I went over your phone calls here at the house and his monthly bills at the office, and I've got some questions. But what I wanted to ask—and if I'm completely out of line, just say so—I'm in a bit of a squeeze. Is there any way, and I know I've got some guts asking, but could I borrow some money—just for a couple of days?"

  “Sure. How much do you need?” She thought he was wanting a loan of a couple hundred dollars.

  “Five thousand dollars. I know it's a lot—"

  “Five thousand?” She couldn't believe it.

  “I'm sorry, babe. I will have it back to you right away, with interest. Just a matter of paying a debt I owe until money that's on its way to me comes in.” He gave her some more double-talk, reddening at his own lack of scruples.

  “Okay,” she said, in a tone that conveyed how totally not okay it was. “If you're certain you can repay me, Royce. I'll have to cash a bond or something."

  “I'll make it up to you. I'll certainly repay the penalty too, Mary. So you won't lose anything. I'd be very grateful.” He didn't know what else to say.

  “You want to go get it now?"

  “If we could—?” He felt skanky, unclean, and remarkably relieved.

  “Sure.” She got her purse and they left in his ride. She decided it would be easier just to get him the money out of the passbook Sam kept for the office. There was nearly eight thousand in it. On the way down to the bank he asked her about the phone bills. There was no way she could do anything other tha
n help Royce, she realized.

  “There were a couple of phone numbers someone had dialed three times at the office, and Myrna said it wasn't her that did it. And once from the house. Alexandria, Virginia. It wasn't on the list you made for me."

  “I don't know who that could be.” He dug out some papers when they pulled up to the bank, and showed her the bills.

  “No idea from the dates who that might be?"

  “I never heard him mention anybody in Virginia.” She felt a cold chill at the presence of something unknown entering her equation about Sam's disappearance.

  “Alexandria is next to Washington, D.C."

  “Oh! I know who that probably is. That was Mr. Sinclair, who helped organize the deal I told you about—where an out-of-state buyer bought up all this high-priced farmland."

  “He was the buyer of the land, this Sinclair?"

  “I think he represented the buyer. He was ... something to do with the environment ... I don't know. Anyway, he worked out of Washington, I remember.” She started to get out and go get Royce his loan, and he stopped her before she pushed the door shut.

  “Mary, is that the big construction site north of town?"

  “I don't know."

  “There's a lot of work going on out there. I know a guy who got a job driving a cat or a backhoe or something. Lots of heavy equipment in there. It's this side of the old rock quarry."

  “I hadn't heard about any work. I suppose it could be. You can look at the papers and stuff if you like...” she trailed off, and headed into the bank.

  In a few minutes she was back, the envelope of fifty hundreds nesting in her purse. She got in and looked at Royce. It was one thing to say, “Sure, you can have a five-thousand-dollar loan,” and it was quite another to hand the money over.

  “Royce. Will you answer a question, if I ask? A personal question?"

  “Yeah. Of course."

  “Don't be offended."

  “No chance."

  “This money. It isn't for drugs, is it?"

  “No.” He smiled. “It's a gambling debt."

  “Well, that's a relief. At least it's for a good cause.” My God. She sighed and handed the money over.

  “I'll have it back to you day after tomorrow.” The check is in the mail. I won't come in your mouth.

  She was exhausted, dead tired, but Mary Perkins was not about to give up.

  She wondered about the wives of the MIAs. How many months and years of wondering go by before a part of you tunes out? It all depended on the woman, or the man, she supposed. How does a person cope when his or her mate vanishes from the face of the earth? How long can you sit and wait for the word that never comes? Others couldn't begin to know the strain and the anguish until it happened to them.

  Only a few weeks had gone by, and Mary was already tired of the weight of worry. Tired of wallowing in what she perceived as disgusting self-pity. Tired of not knowing.

  Tired of the nice people who kept saying things to her that made her flinch, cringe, shudder, or weep. Tired of the limelight already. Even in a town of less than seven hundred, there were nuts who'd call—one in particular phoned every afternoon with a hang-up.

  There were sickos out there. She'd opened up a handwritten envelope with one of the reward announcements folded up inside. Some wit had written, “Sam Perkins is now a forward with the Lakers.” She'd had to get Royce to explain the thing to her, assuring her that it was some cretin's idea of a joke.

  She was tired of shocks and surprises. Tired of opening the top drawer of his dresser and finding all those white shirts stacked up so neat and clean, the shirts done the way he always preferred them, the collars just so. The second drawer with his button-down oxfords. The bottom drawer containing Sam's cashmeres. The sweaters he loved to wear on Saturday, soft and cuddly to the touch, folded and waiting.

  His clothing smelled so sweet and clean. She had opened his closets and examined all his suits, ties, and shoes. Tried to remember exactly what he'd been wearing that Friday. Tried to think if anything else was missing. Shamed herself as she hunted for luggage pieces and shaving gear and airport carry-alls from old trips.

  She was tired of knowing less than she imagined, of wondering what to fix that evening and then realizing it didn't matter, of remembering the look of his square-trimmed fingernails, of hearing his voice inside her head.

  Tired of asking the same question: Where the hell are you, Sam?

  It was beautiful. God, it was something. Perfect. The sky was bright blue and full of cottony clouds, the sun was shining, it was warm, fragrant, spectacular, and Royce Hawthorne was in the salty darkness of the beer joint, sitting in the stall of the men's room, breathing disinfectant and tooting flake. He did another hit and put his coke spoon away. His sinuses felt frozen.

  He was so cool, his jones was frozen. His johnson was asleep. His brain, however, was going eighty-four thousand miles a second. He tipped back the can of Oly Light he'd brought into the john with him, and tossed it unerringly into the corner basket, his over-the-stall-top blind free throw, made from lots of practice.

  Get it done, chump, he said to his legs, and he got up and walked into the main room of The Rockhouse.

  “Yo, Royce.” Vandella said.

  “Gimme a shooter."

  The bartender gave him his drink and started wiping glasses. The day was fabulous, but by ten-thirty the place would be lousy with boozers, dopers, and bust-out degenerate gamblers. Hawthorne took his tequila and moved away from the bar, settling down in the first-base chair of the open twenty-one table.

  “Morning, sir,” the dealer said. Crisp. Young. Very quick, and cold as the thermometer in an L.A. anchorwoman's poot-chute. He had a name tag that read “Doug."

  “Morning, Doug. Wanna play some blackjack?” The man shuffled and made a show of putting a new shoe together. There were maybe six decks in there at the moment, as if The Rockhouse had to worry about a card counter cleaning them.

  Doug-baby was all business. Very good, in fact. He took three or four hundred off Royce before he had time to pull the wedgie out of his crotch.

  He asked for a pile of quarters and dimes and played push with Doug for the rest of his shift, pushing twenty-five-and ten-dollar chips back and forth.

  Dougie finally took his crisp white shirt and string tie out of Royce's face about forty-five minutes later, with a heavy early lunch shot starting to pack the bar. Tia came in on Doug's break, and he was more than a little pleased to see her—wrinkles, artistic brows, and all.

  “Hi, doll."

  “Good morning, sir.” She smiled professionally, flipping in a new shuffle with her Dracula fingernails and long, slim fingers. Her hair was the color of anthracite coal, the Shadow Blue Coal.

  “Rock and roll,” he told her, feeling a rush through the nasal passages, feeling the tequila earn its keep.

  She dealt him a succession of dime-ante bust-out losers, and he pulled everything in his pocket out onto the felt. James Brown was on the juke and he felt good, y'all. Royce's heart was keeping time with the Rockola. He bet it all.

  “Let's ride that—you want to?” This time he imagined he could see it register in that pale, expressionless face.

  “You got it, sir,” she said. She dealt him a straight ace-queen, stood on nineteen, and paid the gambler. He walked out of The Rockhouse with more money than he'd been near in a long time. He got in his ride, put Mary's five away for safety, and headed down the hill to find his main man. They were still pricks, but he understood why they had to be. If they'd made it too easy for him to lay hands on the dough, it would have put both himself and the thing they were building at risk.

  Now everybody was covered. The business with Drexel, the five-K loan from a straight citizen, these had not been pieces of stage business—they were real—and they'd stand up to quiet inquiries by interested parties, parties such as Happy Ruiz and the men he worked for.

  Royce caught himself singing Sam and Dave's “Soul Man,” tapping time on
the wheel as he drove. Feelin’ good, y'all. It's so easy when the slide is greasy. He hadn't felt so unburdened in years.

  In tempo with the driving beat he could imagine the voice of a sportscaster whose name was lost to childhood memory, broadcasting over the roar of the excited home-team crowd:

  “An amazing catch by seventy-four! This could prove to be the most important play in the game; with Waterton trailing Maysburg by a field goal, an incredible third down dive by sticky-fingered, lightning-quick varsity wide receiver Royce Hawthorne, makes it first and ten, goal to go! Hawthorne is sure to be all-city, all-state, all-conference, all-pro, all-star, and all-hero! Yes, fans, it's Royce Hawthorne, the allllllllll-American boy!"

  For the first time in a long while he remembered the way it used to be—when his only worries in life had been scoring, and kicking the Eagles’ collective ass.

  12

  SLABTOWN

  The beast was very hungry. He felt clearheaded for the first time since he'd been given his freedom, really strong, coming awake with a roaring hunger. He wanted real food. Then he wanted a heart.

  He tried to sort out the hazy details of the preceding day. The drugs had simply neutered him. He remembered sitting beside the river, suddenly aware that he was holding a bamboo fishing pole in his hand. He angrily tossed it aside, and heard an old man telling him to “—come on down here. I think they're bitin'.” He looked down and saw the old bum sitting on some drifted logs in a small eddy that had bitten into the riverbank, fishing. Why hadn't he just buried this geek?

  He could have dropped down the bank and nudged this pitiful skin-sack of nothing into the river with no effort, and the corpse might float a good distance before some fisherman would gag on his Budweiser and notify the authorities. He patted the big canvas pocket for his chain and recalled that it was somewhere on the bank behind him.

  Perhaps it would be better to bring the body back up the embankment and just stuff him down in this hole where he was now sitting. He could tamp in the sides of the hole, and find some broken pieces of slab to drop on the impromptu grave.